Devil Is Fine by John Vercher

Author:John Vercher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Celadon Books

I stood over Mrs. Hunter. She was on the ground, one hand reached out in front of her in a defensive posture while the other scooted her backward, away from me. She screamed, tearful and frightened. Her photographer, on his feet, backed away in sync, not helping her to her feet, but snapping photos in rapid succession, the shutter sound only just exceeding the pace of my heaving breaths. My hands hurt. I held the stick Dr. Sattler’s man had retrieved for me like a bat, and it was then I understood Mrs. Hunter’s fear. Her image mirrored that of the man I’d just seen cowering before me, protecting the child. I held my stick over my head, ready to swing. At him. At her.

With the realization of what was happening, I dropped the branch into the sand and walked toward her, apologies tumbling from my twisting tongue, when something hit my side. My diaphragm seized and my breath left me in a graceless grunt. I spun as I fell, the side of my face dragging in the dirt. Then a knee in my back. A sweaty palm on my wrist, wrenching my arm behind my back. Then between my shoulder blades, a focal point of pressure.

So much pressure.

My father crying on the floor. In bed, stung and shivering. You, Malcolm, on my back again. Your baby’s breath on my cheek. A wraith perched on my chest. My son.

My son.

My son?

Am I going home? Will you be happy to see me?

My other arm flailed, desperate not to have them both pinned behind me, knowing that if I didn’t push myself up, I might never rise again. Sand and dirt filled one nostril and I strained my neck, hoping to lift my head. The harder I worked to keep air filling my lungs, the more often the refrain of “stop resisting” fell into my open ear. I thought to do so, but then not resisting only led to more of the same. One eye pressed to the ground, my open one searched until I found an incredulous Hunter. Officer Ryan found my free wrist and applied leverage, forcing that arm behind me as well. More air left my lungs than came in. His free hand pressed against the side of my face, the side I fell on the day prior in his presence.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t sit up.

“Please.”

Hunter’s incredulity morphed into something else, what it was, I don’t know, but it was enough for her to say quietly

“Stop.”

When the pressure remained, she shouted, “Stop! Let him up!”

More pressure. Less air.

Dr. Sattler now. Her colleagues. “Get off him! He can’t breathe!”

Vision narrowed. Photographer stepped closer. Snapped pictures. Pressure abated. Then relieved. Inhaled deep, then again. Vision back into focus. Pulled by my cuffed wrists to kneeling. Dr. Sattler and the Denim Duo at her side moved to help me to my feet, but Officer Ryan warned them back. He spoke to the photographer as he yanked me upright, sending knives through my shoulders.

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